Oral Reports
by Shiloh Moon
Summary: Mustang is fed up with decoding Edward's chicken scratch handwriting when he turns in his mission reports. He's convinced himself that there's absolutely nothing he could do about it. But then he gets a call from Maes, who proceeds to gush about his daughter in a ten minute rant over the phone, and Mustang gets an idea. One-shot.


Oral Reports

 **Disclaimer: I don't own FMA.**

 **I need to stop writing all these one-shots. No, scratch that. I need to stop letting the plot bunnies bully me into writing these one-shots. They keep yelling at me and nudging me towards my writing desk. This isn't fair. LEAVE ME ALONE, I SAY!**

 **Warnings: Ed's foul language.**

 **No pairings! (as usual)**

 **Anywho, enjoy yet another result of me pulling a Mustang. :)**

o.O.0.O.o

Roy lounged in the comfort of his living room, gazing out at the scene beyond his window. The room presented a cozy, relaxing atmosphere as a small fire crackled inside the stone fireplace. The mood allowed the man a well-deserved period of contentment and peace away from the office. Every night he found himself splayed out on his couch while he did absolutely nothing. Nothing but listen to the sound of fire and his own soft breathing.

But, even here, Roy was unable to escape the horrifying nightmare known as _paperwork_. On his way out the door, Riza had shoved the stack into his arms and instructed him to return with the completed forms on Monday. And here he was, procrastinating, in his own home where he wasn't forced to endure the childish antics of his squadron, and the threatening glare of Riza's gun. It was Sunday evening and he had yet to make a dent in the leaning tower of paper. If only that one, mocking piece of paper wasn't placed on top of it he might've actually gotten started on it earlier.

Said mocking piece of paper was nothing more than an average mission report. However, the only reason why he dreaded reading the parchment was because of _whose_ mission report it was. Without even reading the name that had been so hastily scribbled at the top, one glance at the handwriting told him everything he needed to know. It looked like a pen had vomited all over the paper and attempted to clean it up, only to worsen the mess by smearing it across the page. Clearly, it fell under "completely illegible" on Roy's reading scale, confirming that, if he chose to, he could make his subordinate start over and write it again.

But making this particular subordinate re-do his report only lead to more problems and headaches for the both of them. Ever since Fullmetal started traveling around the issue had only gotten worse. After Roy had forcefully confronted the kid about it, he managed to squeeze out a pissed-off explanation.

" _I don't have time to be screwing around and copying every little thing I do onto a piece of paper!"_

Roy sympathized with the boy, to a certain extent. He remembered when he had to do missions, and write the report afterwards. By the time he actually finished the mission and headed back to Headquarters he was usually too wiped to do much more than scribble down a few vague sentences before crashing right there in his train seat. The man understood the lack of time and energy post-mission, especially with the type of missions that Fullmetal was assigned on a weekly basis. Even so, as Colonel, he had no say in how things were organized and dealt with in the military. The higher-ups wanted Roy to send in any and all mission reports as soon as humanly possible to ensure fresh and accurate data. The power to change that was reserved for the Fuhrer and his direct assistants.

It was yet another inconvenience that he aimed to fix when he became Fuhrer. But even when that day finally came, he wouldn't have the slightest idea how to fix the way they did mission reports.

Suddenly the house was filled with an obnoxious _RIIING_ , the sound's epicenter being _right_ next to him on the side table. He about leaped out of his skin when it went off, and he was still recovering his wits as he picked up the receiver.

"Colonel Roy Mustang speaking," he answered as he ran a hand through his hair.

"Roy! You answered!"

The man groaned as he recognized his best friend's voice on the other end. Was he cursed to receive phone calls from this man, _in the middle of the night_ , just so his friend could gush about his daughter? It was bad enough he did it when Roy was at work, but _this_? This was his personal time, and he wanted to enjoy every last moment of it free of unnecessary stress. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he glanced over at the clock. 11:47 it read.

"This had better be important, Maes." Roy growled.

"Oh it is! My darling little angel drew—"

Roy tuned him out after that. He kept the line alive, if only to ensure that Maes wouldn't call him later. Roy would just have to listen for the occasional question that he'd undoubtedly respond to by grumbling something like, "Uh-huh.", "Oh really?", or "Yes, I'm still listening, Maes.". He found that if he showed a little bit of interaction while Maes talked, the "cute rant" would end a little bit quicker. Roy would've almost preferred to hear one of Fullmetal's "short rants". At least _his_ rants were… well, _short_.

The thought of the hot-tempered blond brought him back to the issue at hand. He glanced back over to the mission report sitting innocently atop his tower of paperwork. He plucked the paper off of its perch as he mumbled a "Yes Maes, how very interesting…" into the telephone. The raven-haired man cringed at the butchered and jumbled lettering. In the duration that Maes poured out his long and ruthless tale of Elicia's drawing, Roy had managed to de-code about one fifth of the mission report. When his best friend had finally ran out of breath and bade him goodnight, the man looked at the clock wondering just how long his torture session lasted _that_ time.

To his surprise, it read 11:58. Only about ten minutes had passed. Roy snorted as he hung up the receiver. It kind of amazed him how much information his friend could shove through the phone in such a short amount of time.

Then an idea hit him.

o.O.0.O.o

Mustang stretched his arms above his head and cracked his back. His muscles whined at the sudden unexpected movement after being in idle for so long. He'd been sitting at his desk listening to his subordinates discuss the behavioral patterns of the common bullfrog for a solid half hour. He had no idea that Fuery found animals so interesting. He also had no idea that Falman was capable of reciting everything from a bullfrog's typical habitat to an extensive list of every secretion and all of their chemical compositions. Ugh. Just from eavesdropping, Roy now knew more about bullfrogs than he had ever wanted to know in his life. Thanks, Falman.

It was a slow day at the office, so as one might imagine, things only got interesting _after_ the appearance of a certain blond alchemist.

Said blond alchemist kicked the door open precisely at 2:21 in the afternoon, failing to startle the occupants of the room seeing as how it was the normal time of day that he arrived. No one even so much as jumped when the door slammed into the wall and an angry teen marched inside. He stomped up to Mustang's desk and slapped a piece of paper onto its dented wooden surface. After doing so, the teen flopped onto a nearby couch and crossed his arms over his chest, grumbling incoherent things to himself as he awaited his dismissal.

Mustang glanced down at the report and mentally winced at the headache that was sure to ensue after deciphering the ink mess. But then he remembered his ingenious revelation the night before and he flat out grinned. Hawkeye, the ever-observant one, raised an eyebrow at his suddenly joyous expression. The raven-haired man looked up at the teen sitting on the couch, who wasn't even paying attention. He would be in a moment, Mustang knew.

And so with great pleasure, the Colonel picked up the piece of paper, scanning a critical eye over it as he pretended to actually try and read it, a serious-looking expression plastered on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hawkeye narrowing her gaze, wondering just what her superior was up to. Then he held the paper firmly between his hands and casually tore the page into two halves.

 _SHHHHHHRIP_ echoed through the now utterly silent office.

Fullmetal snapped his head up at the sound and his eyes widened in bewilderment. The rest of his subordinates stared at him as if he'd just grown a third eye. Hawkeye looked positively gob smacked, too frozen in shock to even reach for her gun. Taking advantage of her moment of weakness, Mustang proceeded to rip the rest of the paper to shreds and toss the remains into a nearby trash bin.

"What the HELL did you do _that_ for?!" Fullmetal shrieked, voicing everyone's question.

"I couldn't read it." he stated simply.

"You're not making me re-do my report again are you?"

"Well if I _did_ , you wouldn't be obligated to write it any neater now would you?"

Hearing the sound of Hawkeye snapping out of her shock (the safety of her gun clicking off) he cleared his throat hastily and added, "I wanted to try something different this time. Sargent, bring the typewriter and follow us."

Earning the undivided attention of everyone on in the office, Mustang stood up and brushed off his uniform. He gestured for Fullmetal to follow him and he walked out the door. The sound of fabric rustling and boots clomping across the floor could be heard behind him as the man turned left and proceeded down the hallway. A few seconds ticked by and he could also hear Fuery fumbling down the hall after them.

o.O.0.O.o

After all three of them were seated, Mustang and Fullmetal facing each other on opposite couches, Fuery sitting in the back with the typewriter, Mustang cleared his throat.

"Now," he began, looking at Fullmetal. "For every report that you're required to give, instead of writing it down, we're going to come here and you will verbally describe your mission to me while Fuery types out what you say. Are you ready, Fuery?"

The bespectacled man adjusted his glasses and nodded. "Yes, sir!"

The blond alchemist wore a blank expression. "So we're doing oral reports now? No more writing?" as soon as he spoke, Fuery instinctively started typing, the sound of clicking keys merely fading to background noise. Fullmetal barely seemed to notice.

"No more writing." Mustang agreed.

A bright grin spread across the young soldier's face. "Awesome! Why didn't we start doing this sooner?"

"I was wondering that myself. It would've saved me all of the headaches—"

"Sir," Fuery interrupted. "Shouldn't he be starting the report now?"

The raven-haired man blinked. "Right. Fullmetal, begin. And don't even _think_ of leaving anything out."

"Oh, so what you're saying is, you're interested in _everything_ that happened on the mission?" the blond asked testily. "Even, oh say, my trips to the bathroom? Maybe you'd like to know exactly what was going through my mind when I took that exceptionally large dump? What kind of toilet paper did I wipe my ass with? Which article of the newspaper I was reading? Or perhaps you'd like to know why I picked that specific toilet…"

Fuery, who had long since stopped typing, was obviously trying very hard to keep a straight face. Mustang, however, ground his teeth and growled, "Everything _relevant to the mission_ , Fullmetal."

The blond smirked. "Fine. Um, I guess I should start when Alphonse and I ran into that weird guy at the market…"

o.O.0.O.o

Edward slung his sopping wet coat carelessly against the rack and bent down, removing a boot and dumping the water out right there on the rug. His entire outfit, himself included, was soaked. He undid his braid and wrung out his hair as a familiar suit of armor clanked into the foyer.

"Brother!" Alphonse greeted semi-cheerfully. "You're home early!"

The blond knitted his eyebrows in confusion. "I am?"

"Uh-huh." he confirmed, twisting his gauntlets nervously.

Edward narrowed his eyes at his brother, but sighed and continued shaking out his bangs in an attempt to dry them. Trudging through the rain on his way back from yet another false lead had really done him in. He didn't even care what his little brother was up to at this point. All he wanted was to change into some dry clothes, eat something, and fall asleep on a nice warm bed as opposed to the seat of a train. It had been a long ride, so not only was Edward in a mere half-awake state at the moment, but he was also fed up with dealing with everything in general. Whatever his little brother did, it could wait until morning.

However, as the universe would have it, what Alphonse did couldn't wait until morning.

Cats. Cats _everywhere_. Cats on the shelves. Cats on the kitchen table. Cats on the counters. Cats inside the pantry. Cats all over the bedroom. Cats on the _freaking bed_. Cats, cats, CATS!

"ALPHONSE VAN ELRIC, WHAT THE _HELL_ ARE ALL THESE CATS DOING IN HERE?!"

The suit of armor trembled in the corner, his shrill voice squeaking a terrified reply, "I-I couldn't just l-leave them out there in the rain…"

Soon after Edward's explosion, cats were _flying_ everywhere.

Cats out the windows. Cats through the door. Cats up the chimney. Cats punted here. Cats punted there. A little suit of armor quaking in terror. Cats tossed across the halls. Cats chucked down the laundry chute. As the angry older brother screamed, cats were soaring through the air!

Out into the rain, the little kitties went. And the angry older brother crashed out on the floor, completely spent.

o.O.0.O.o

 **Yeeeaaahh, that last part has nothing to do with the story, but no matter! The ending scenes of my one-shots usually do close with humor, and I believe I've achieved that if I do say so myself!**

 **By the way, I have no idea what Alphonse's actual middle name is. I just thought it would add more malice to Ed's pissed-off-ness if he used his middle name, and I didn't know it, so I gave him Van's name! It had a nice ring to it, I think. :)**

 **That's about it! Until next time.**

 **Fare thee well, strange people!**


End file.
